BIRD'S-NESTING 101 



with but little money and no friends. Moreover, her 

 doctor advised her that she had only a year at most 

 to live. One day she found the nest of a prairie 

 warbler, that little jewel-casket lined with fern-wool. 

 It held four eggs like pink-flecked pearls. The very 

 next day she bought a bird-book, and forgot all 

 about herself, and spent the happiest months of her 

 life hunting nests. At the end of a year in the open, 

 she notified her indignant physician that she had 

 become too much interested in her hobby to confirm 

 his diagnosis. To-day she supports herself happily 

 by writing about what she sees and hears among 

 the wild-folk. 



The moral of all this is, go bird's-nesting. This 

 past summer, practising what I preach, I spent all 

 my spare holidays in May, June, and July hunting 

 rare nests. Let me say in preface that I collect only 

 with a note-book and a camera. Personally, I prefer 

 to have memories and notes and pictures of my 

 bird's-nests rather than cabinets full of pierced and 

 empty eggs; for I believe that a human who visits 

 his brethren of the air as their friend will find out 

 more about them than he who follows them about 

 like a weasel, only to rob their nests. 



The first of my bird-holidays was on May 20th. 

 Four of us were to meet at Mount Pocono, the high- 

 est mountain in Pennsylvania, on a hunt for the rare 

 nest of that tiny bird, the golden-crowned kinglet. 

 Late that evening we reached the camp near the 

 top of the mountain, where we were to make our 

 headquarters. Up there the weather had harked 



